


Holding On

by Avon7



Category: The Bill
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avon7/pseuds/Avon7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to let go</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

Letting himself into the empty flat Tom fought back an urge to call out “Alex, it’s me, mate.” Instead, he dumped the handful of mail he held onto the hall table - then stayed a minute to fidget it into straightness. He walked slowly down the hall, feeling that he pushed through the silence as a swimmer through water. 

 

There were four doors opening off the short hall but he passed by the first two without a glance. He’d sent Duncan over the night after the accident, when he’d expected Alex to spend a few weeks in hospital, to check the fridge for perishables and to sort out anything else urgent in the kitchen so there was no immediate need to deal with those sorts of details.

 

He stopped in the doorway of Alex’s bedroom. As always it was neat – bed made and clothes, except for a leather jacket hung on the back of a chair, away - and clean, under the thin layer of dust that covered everything.  Tom hesitated, leaning against the door frame, unsure of what to do.  Alex’s only family was an aunt in Glasgow.  In Tom’s two awkward conversations with her, the one thing he had established was that she wouldn’t be coming down to London.  By default, packing up and disposing of Alex’s personal possessions seemed to be his job.  He could get started now – there was a roll of bin bags in his car and it would provide some reason for this pointless visit – but he instead backed away from the doorway and went into the lounge room.

 

Glancing around, Tom was hit first by the incongruity of familiar objects in unfamiliar places. From chairs to TV to coffee table, from Rugby pennant to garishly tacky figurine emblazoned ‘Greetings from Blackpool’ to blue iMac computer, the room’s contents were all familiar from their days at West End Central Vice – but he’d been here only once, maybe twice in the months since their move.  The room itself could have belonged to a stranger.  The feeling of being in a place only half-remembered  added to the feeling of unreality he’d felt ever since he’d walked away from Alex’s body.  Tom pressed his hands against his eyes.  God, he needed sleep – but a feeling of things still to be done nagged at him. 

 

He circled the room slowly, pausing at the window. He leaned against its coolness, fighting tiredness.  He’d scarcely been home to sleep in the three days since they’d moved Alex into intensive care, even after it was obvious that Alex had slipped into a place beyond all knowledge of the world.  In truth, that blank period of waiting had been easier than those first days when Alex had kept struggling through clouds of fever, pain and drugs to watch him with frightened eyes.  He’d lied to him, of course - lies he’d half-believed - telling him that it would be all right, that the doctors were winning.   The fear hadn’t left Alex’s eyes, but he’d seemed easier when Tom was there so Tom had stayed - and stayed even when his vigil had become unneeded.

 

Blinking burning eyes Tom pushed away from the window. This was stupid, he told himself irritably - he should go home to bed.  Instead, he resumed his pacing.  He’d known Alex Cullen for more than ten years – since Alex had been a gangly 23 year old TI on secondment to the Robbery Squad and he’d been a suave, smooth – at least in his opinion - 28 year old DS.  They’d been an odd couple then too but by the end of the first week Tom had realised that, while Alex lacked his political savvy and burning ambition, his passion for the job and the level of thought he gave the job matched his own.  In Alex, too, Tom had found the total loyalty he’d needed since his mother had left her teenage son for a new husband and a new life in America. 

 

They’d remained in touch after the two month secondment, catching up occasionally for a meal or a drink, until a mixture of chance and choice washed them together at West End – and Tom’s first action on taking the offered posting at Sun Hill had been to bargain for Alex as his DI.  He’d known that in the shifting sands ahead of him Alex would be the one thing he could rely on – and he had relied on him.  Relied on him, leaned on him – and treated him like an old workhorse of a car that can be run into the ground because it doesn’t matter.  He’d been both panicked and hurt when he’d realised that Alex was considering an NCS offer and had shamelessly worked on sabotaging him but when Alex had wanted some of his company or some support with an officer he’d been too busy building his empire.

 

As Tom’s thoughts tumbled around, he continued his pacing of the room. The surface of his mind took in impressions – three Rugby magazines on the seat of an empty chair, a burn on the coffee table where Tom had once put down a drunken cigar, a postcard of a bikini-clad girl from a West End sergeant, a stack of legal reference books beside the computer, curtains which had come from the West End flat and which were slightly too long for the windows, the worn cushions on Alex’s favourite chair, a West Brom coffee cup – but nothing seemed real.  Ten days ago he’d been sitting in his office working through a pile of paperwork and half-listening to the police radio on his desk when he’d heard Webb call for an ambulance for the DI and he’d been on his feet and out the door before he even remembered the meeting Seeta was left to cancel.   They hadn’t even gone out mob-handed – it was a routine sortie to pick-up some thieving suspects – but two suspects had come out tooled up with iron bars.  In the ruck the DI’s knee had been smashed.  In Tom’s first wave of relief that he hadn’t lost another officer that had seemed like nothing.  In the hours he waited back at the nick for the results of the surgery, more realistic thoughts about the end of Alex’s rugby career – and even his police career if things didn’t go well – began to sink in.  Fortunately, by the time he saw a doped-up Alex in hospital that night he was able to reassure him that the doctors were well pleased.  For the next two days he’d worried more about the difficulties of finding an acting DI, and his visits to Alex were focussed almost entirely on work matters.  He’d got Seeta to organise some flowers but hadn’t bothered to find the time to say, “I was bloody scared when I heard that you were hurt”. 

 

Exhausted, Tom stopped pacing. He straightened and stretched, hands clasped at the back of his neck before sitting down on the nearest chair.  God, he was tired – and he didn’t want to remember any more.  He didn’t want to remember going in on the fourth day to chase up the exact status of Alex’s court cases and finding him restless with pain, even through the dope they were still giving him.  He didn’t want to remember how he’d ignored that and the new drips to push for the information he needed – or how Alex had struggled to help him.  He didn’t want to remember the nightmare days that followed, either.  You expected an infection to be cured in these days of medical miracles…. 

 

Almost asleep, Tom jerked awake. He glanced down at his watch – just past ten… almost eight hours since Alex had died.  He should go home to bed.  There were people to call and things to do tomorrow.  Work couldn’t be put off much longer – especially now that he didn’t have a DI… he needed to talk to Barton St about cover for the funeral….  re-assign Alex’s cases permanently… chase up what MIP were doing with charges….   He didn’t **want** to sit here and keep remembering how he’d watched Alex die …. Oh God he didn’t want to! He didn’t move though.  If he went to sleep he’d wake up in tomorrow – a tomorrow Alex didn’t know.  Today Alex had been alive - to move into that tomorrow where he would always be dead seemed like abandoning him. Crazy, Tom told himself, angrily, but none of the feeling changed, so he sat on in the half-familiar room, fighting back the rushes of sleep that dragged at him - holding onto today for Alex.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to and fond memories of the AWA. Those were the days.


End file.
